By Justoneguy

I snuck into the barn through a loose board in an empty horse stall. The heads of the animals loomed above me, arched over the walls of their own stalls. The mighty animals snorted and shuffled, but didn’t draw too much attention from the four men standing in the center of the barn. Two of the men bore lanterns that blazed golden on the dirt floor and cast long black shadows on the old gray wood of the barn walls. Cloaked in the shadows, no one noticed me peering through the horse stall.

And I arrived just in time. I still remember to this day seeing two other men enter through the wide barn doors. They two men struggled and grasped at the youth between them. They clutched at his arms, two hands rasping the strong biceps and forearms of a 19-year-old youth—my best friend Joshua.

“Nuuuhhhh, nooooooo,” I heard Joshua croak and grunt and he jerked and struggled. His bare feet dug and scraped into the hard dirt floor of the barn. He was a strong youth, muscled and vigorous. But man on either side, with a vise like grip on him, had the advantage of experience and weight. They were strong men, controlling their terrified and desperate prisoner with effort but with confidence.

They had a lot of experience, those two guys. They worked as the enforcers on the manor. There were lots of slaves to be kept in line, especially since the field hands were usually single men between 16 and 26. The master of the manor was a stern but fair man—and a major stickler for discipline. I saw he was fair because everyone on the manor knew the rules he set down, and he didn’t change them to suit his own whims. But he also wouldn’t change them to show mercy.

Joshua and I were not slaves in the common sense. We were generally referred to as servant-slaves. Our fathers had gone into ruinous debt, and the court had awarded us to this manor in lew of payment. Both Joshua and I were 14 at the time. We had known each other before, and our fathers had been good friends. Their joint business collapsed, which resulted in our servitude. Neither of us had seen or families in five years, and we probably never would again. But we would not always be slaves. There was the promise of freedom for us when we turned 21. At that point, we would be free men, no longer slaves to our fathers’ foolish decisions.

But until that day, our 21st birthdays, we were slaves in every sense. Our lives were not our own. We worked and did what we were told. Most of the time. We had a reputation though—Joshua more so than me. We were known to talk back or to make faces at our masters. I wasn’t as bad (although I had my moments). But Joshua never really accepted the idea that he was not free—that he was a slave, even for a few years. Most of the slave masters didn’t like us. My association with Joshua made my own behavior seem worse than it was. I can’t count the number of times I was punished along with my friend just because I was his friend and they assumed I was involved. Joshua’s bad attitude made it all the easier for me to get him to this moment of punishment.

The two guards at his side held Joshua immobile. He was nude except for a loincloth wrapped around his package. I could see his muscles straining under the grip of the guards. One of the other men was tying his arms behind his back to a smooth pole. They were securing him. Joshua had been pushed to his knees, ropes and wooden poles tied around his body in such a way that he could never get away under his own strength. They were preparing him. And as they were, I looked at my friend. His skin was pale but glowed golden in the light of the lamps. His eyes were wild; his face twisted in defiance and fear. “Nuuugggghhhhh, ngguuuuuuaahhhhh,” his voice strained as he struggled. “Nuuugggg, nngnooooooo.” I looked at him and only him. The actions of the other men as they secured him from movement or escape were a blur on the edge of my vision. There was just my friend, stronger than me, better looking than me, on his knees, tied up and helpless. This was the man Andrea had chosen over me.

I had worshiped Andrea for months. I would do extra work for her to lighten her own work. I would come around and try to joke and look cool in her presence. Joshua knew my feelings. Hell, he even gave me advice and pointers about the best way to win this girl. But Andrea hardly noticed my efforts. And when she did, she was annoyed. I guess that only makes sense. She was the hottest, best looking woman of the slaves. She had her pick of the entire estate. Even the slave masters, although they could never mate with her by law, would flirt and show respect to her. Why would she notice me? Not that I am bad looking or anything. But I was certainly not the best. Certainly not in the league of Joshua.

As I looked at him, held and helpless in the barn, I wondered what it was that made him so attractive to the women, to Andrea. He was a little taller than me, but still only 6’. He was somewhat thin and wiry, but muscular and strong. Just not overly so. His face was strong with sharp jaw lines and deep brown eyes. His hair was brown with natural waves and curls. He always stood, walked, and acted in a totally confident manor. Maybe that was the element that put his attractiveness so much more than my own—especially to Andrea.

I’ll never forget the day only two weeks ago when I first crept into this barn stall. It was the day of festival, and everyone was at the banquet at the big house. Everyone but me. I was too upset about Andrea’s latest cutting put down of my advances. I just walked around the barn area. Then I heard the sound. The unmistakable sound of sex and love from inside the barn. I had seen slaves having sex in the woods and fields before. And it was an amazing turn on. When I heard the groans and breaths of lovemaking from inside the barn, I felt my own heart race. I had to see. I thought it would take my mind off my troubles. I crept inside the stall. I knew the lovers wouldn’t hear me, and if they did, they would think I was a horse. And when I peered through the stall door, I saw them. Joshua was on top of Andrea. He held his weight up over her with his hands. His knees rested in the hard dirt of the floor. Her knees were about his hips, which he rocked back and forth slowly, then fast, then slow. I watched Joshua’s lily white butt flex and relax and he humped his manhood into my woman—the woman I wanted to be mine. I saw Andrea’s hand grip the muscles of my friend’s back and his shoulder blades. I saw her run her hands down his back and grab the firm flesh of his butt as he pumped her faster. Joshua’s deep, breathy groans and Andrea’s short high-pitched squeals filled my ears.

“Oh your so good,” I heard Andrea whisper to her lover. “Oh, it feels so good.”

I watched them for ten minutes. I watched as their sounds and breathing grew louder and labored. I watched as Joshua put Andrea’s legs over his shoulders and drove his manhood deeper into her to her delight. I saw Joshua’s tanned ball sack, fat and plump, go from resting loosely on Andrea’s body to being tight and firm against his own. And when his ripe balls were tight between his legs, Joshua let out a deep masculine groan and clinched his butt tight as he pushed into my girl—his girl. I watched as he pumped his seed into her woom. And she squealed her pleasure.

Then Joshua rolled over, his sweaty back resting in the dirt and dust of the floor. And I saw Andrea’s panting sweaty form, lying unmoving beside her lover. I saw her breasts, which had moments ago been pressed to Joshua’s chest. I saw her hairy womanhood, pink and satisfied. And she reached over and took my friend’s man pole in her hand and held it up. It was not so different from my own. A little less than 6” perhaps, average for a man, to hear the field hands talk. But Andrea stared at it with satisfied lust. And she cupped his loosening balls in her hand and said, “Oh, you’re a natural. Oh, Joshua, you’re such a man. And your stones are so big.” She gave a little giggle as she fondled them. And I lost it.

And that’s when I’d had enough. It wasn’t hard to get Joshua in trouble. His reputation on the estate was very poor. Some stolen money here, some broken dishes there. It was easy. But I made sure that they could never pin anything on me—as the true wrong doer or as the friend and accomplice in the act. And I knew that the slave masters enjoyed punishing Joshua for his insolence, so they were prepared to believe his guilt without looking too deeply into the charges. And Joshua, never humble even when truly guilty, was bitter and combative with the masters. His attitude would be the deciding factor above everything else. I knew that, at least, he would be whipped. But when I saw the men gather at the barn at sunset, I knew that my plan had worked as I had hoped.

And there he was, on his knees, tied and secured, the men standing around him and chuckling. “Well, lets get this started,” Leon said. He was the top slave master on the estate in charge of discipline and order. He was a gruff man, with rough, callused hands and a pitted face. He had been a field hand himself in his youth and had worked his way to the top of the manor. And he hated Joshua and me. I could see the glee on his face that he and Joshua were there together that night, in the barn, for punishment.

“Yeah, best to get it over with fast,” another of the men said with a note of pity in his voice.

Leon snorted and reached down to Joshua. I saw my friend jerk at his approaching hand, but the bonds held him fast. Leon reached between Joshua’s muscled legs and gripped his loincloth. With a tug, he yanked it from Joshua’s waist. And his manhood was exposed. Joshua closed his eyes tight in rage and humiliation. If he wasn’t bound, if he could somehow get his arms free, I thought in that moment that he could have killed Leon with his bare hands. But he couldn’t get free.

The men looked at Joshua’s nakedness and chuckled. Joshua’s pale skin flushed pink in the lantern light. I saw my friend’s manhood then, the manhood that had won Andrea and pleased her. It looked different than the straining pole of flesh I had seen that day in the barn, when he had pleased my girl until she panted for more. Now, his organ was a shriveled tube of flesh, sticking from the thick brown curly bush of hair that framed his genitals. The pale pink head of his pokey sausage stood out plump and flared from the pale shaft. Joshua and I were the only circumcised slaves at the manor—because we were born free. No owner of an estate would bother with the expense of circumcising his slaves. But a loving father who wanted his son to be seen as rich and high class would make sure his son’s manhood looked like a rich man’s. Leon snorted and spit when he looked at Joshua’s shriveled organ, with no skin rolled over the naked head. How he hated us free-borns. The fear of the moment might have shriveled his noodle, or perhaps the cool air in the barn, but I like to think that his organ was always smaller than mine was when it was soft—if not when it was hard.

But hanging down between Joshua’s legs, under his thick forest of sex hair and his sticking tube of man sausage, hung his ripe tan bag of manhood. His balls were bigger than my own--plumper, fuller, a man’s bag. They were tan in color, a sharp contrast with the pale skin of his thighs. And a more masculine contrast than my own pink colored sack provided. They hung under his body, vulnerable and loose. Joshua looked up at the men standing over him, and for the first time since he was dragged into the barn, I saw something other than anger and rage in his eyes. I saw fear, pleading hopeful fear.

“Let’s get this done,” Leon said again, his voice stern and determined. And he produced two leather loops from his pocket.

Joshua’s eyes focused on the leather straps. I saw the whites of his eyes, wide, his brow wrinkled. Leon bent to his knee and laid a strap over one of his thighs. The other, he prepared. Joshua’s mouth hung open, disbelieving. Leon smiled at him, and lowered his hand between Joshua’s straining sweaty thighs. Joshua shook his head slowly. “No, no, please, what is this?” I saw Leon gently cup what made Joshua a man, lifting his orbs and dropping them down between the leather loop. “I haven’t done anything, like I said,” Joshua said, his voice low and serious. Doubtless he was continuing a defense that had failed earlier in the evening, when he had yelled and cursed the accusations.

Leon took the second leather loop and pulled it over Joshua’s hanging male fruit. He looked into Joshua’s eyes, face to face. Leon’s scraggly beard and leathered skin contrasted with Joshua’s smooth pale complexion. “You ready, free-born?” Leon said. And he pulled both loops tight.

It was like pulling a chock chain on a dog’s leash. The thin leather straps snapped tight around the neck of Joshua’s ball sack instantly turning his tan bag an angry purple. Joshua’s plump orbs stood out in their sack under the biting sting of the leather. “Gguauaaaaahhhh.” My friend threw his head back, his mouth agape. His eyes were closed tight, but as his body relaxed against the first shock of the pain radiating from between his legs. Leon and the men chuckled under their breath. When Joshua opened his eyes and focused them again at Leon, who was still face to face with him, his eyes were wet with tears, his face a mask of pain and terror. “Oh god, take it off. Please, oh god. Please. God, it huurrrrttsssssss.”

“Hahaha. Does it hurt boy? You’re little balls hurt?” Leon screwed his face in mockery of Joshua’s tears and pleading expression. “You free-borns make me sick. Always strutting around like you’re better than the rest of us. But you don’t feel better now do you, boy? You proud of your clipped dick boy?” He reached over and flicked Joshua’s shriveled sausage with his fingers causing it to swing back and forth. “Be proud of it while you can, because you’ll never us it again.”

As I watched from the stall and looked at Joshua’s pleading wet face as he begged Leon to let him stay a man, I realized that he no longer was a man in a fundamental way. He was no longer proud, no longer strong of will. He was a pleading boy or a whining woman. But he wasn’t a man. Where was the swaggering young man who had seduced Andrea and humped her until her pussy quivered with pleasure? He was on his knees in the same spot in the barn where he had fucked Andrea, where his penis had been a hard straining bone inside her warm insides. He was a man then, a grunting hungry man. Now he was a crying boy. I felt my manhood harden in my pants. I silently slipped my hand into my pants and stroked my pole.

Joshua’s eyes darted from man to man in the barn. Perhaps he knew that Leon would never show mercy. Perhaps he thought that another in the group would keep things from going too far. He was wrong. Some of the men did look pained and sympathetic, but I knew they would never cross Leon. And the others were smiling, their eyes looking lustfully at the prospect of a strapping young man—younger, better looking than they were—losing his manhood in an instant instead of slowly with age. Joshua’s flat stomach and muscled chest heaved with each breath. His arms and legs twisted against the ropes. If only he could free his hands and loosen the strangling pain of the terrible straps above his nuts. It must be the same thing a colt or young bull feels when he kicks his legs trying to remove the gelder’s straps. Joshua was feeling it now, his mind being consumed with the white-hot pain between his legs. His body shook in a cold sweet. “Please, please, it hurts so bad. Please, not this. Not my balls. Please. Aarruuuggghhhh, it hurtsssss.”

Leon just smiled and produced his knife. It was a short bladed knife, silver polished. He held it up for Joshua to see. “I’ll bet you never thought that your life would change this way, did you free-born. You thought of yourself as a man and assumed that it would always be that way. You thought you could do anything you wanted, steal anything you wanted, break anything you wanted, and still, at the end of the day, fuck any girl you wanted. You thought you were a man. Well, guess what. You’re not going to be a man much longer.”

Joshua’s eyes focused on the blade—the blade that would end all that he was. His eyes were no longer damp; now tears flowed openly down his checks. I saw the muscles of his arms, his biceps and triceps, flex and twist. There was nothing he could do. The blade would take his manhood—take his ability to please Andrea or any other girl, even take his desire to please them. Leon gripped Joshua’s hanging sack in his cold, callused hand. Joshua’s face was no longer a mask of pain, but it did look supremely desperate. “S, s, sir. I knnow I’ve donne wrong. Please, I, I won’t do anything again. Please, please, just don’t take them, just don’t hurt them. Please, I want to stay a man, I w, w, want to be a man. Please. Oh god, this can’t be happening!”

Leon rested the blade against the neck of Joshua’s tender distressed ball sac. His hand seemed to tighten its grip on my friend’s hanging orbs. He looked into Joshua’s eyes. “Boy, it’s happening.” And with a chick jerk of his hand, Joshua’s sack of manhood was sliced from his body.

Joshua’s body spasmed, cold droplets of sweat shaking loose and dropping on the dirt floor. His head lulled to the side, his mouth open and jaw slack. “Aaaaguguuuuaaa, nunnoooo, nnnaaoooooo.” He sounded like a male in orgasm. But he wasn’t. His body was feeling the pain of emasculation.

My own hand continued to stroke my manhood, and I felt the pleasure building in my loins. I watched Joshua’s body and tried to imagine the pain radiating like a white sun between his legs from the place of his gelding. But I couldn’t imagine it. Leon smiled and laughed. And he tossed the loose sack from his hand. It landed with a thud in the dirt right in front of my stall.

Leon stood and patted Joshua’s shoulder. “I’ll send doc to tend you, boy.” He nodded to the other men and they left the barn together.

Joshua was still tied up, the ropes keeping him on his knees and held upright. But his head lulled back and a little to the left. His eyes were vacant, tears still streaming down. His mouth hung open in a steady low groan. As I watched, I pulled my organ from my pants, no longer worried that the men might hear the sound. I felt the cool air of the barn on my manhood. It felt so good to have it freed from my pants. And I looked at Joshua in the light of the lantern they had left for the doc.

This was the man who had stolen Andrea from me. This was my friend, who played childhood games with me and protected me from bullies in our youth. This was my partner as slave-servants when we arrived at the manor. This was my best friend. I allowed a small soft moan of pleasure to escape my mouth. I heard it mix with the steady emasculated groan from Joshua that filled the barn.

Then, I did it. I got up my courage. And as fast as a striking snake, I reached beyond the door of the stall and snatched the prize—Joshua’s trophy. The dirt rustled as I pulled it into the stall. My heart pounded. I held it in one hand, the other constantly stroking my hard pole. I felt the heaviness of that sack in my hand—the power of it. One of the tight leather loops hung from it, keeping the contents of the bag from spilling out. For 19 years, Joshua had carried that sack and orbs inside under his body, between his legs. Now, I held it in my hand, detached, picked fruit from the tree of my friend’s manhood. I felt the soft looseness of the skin of his sack, the heavy firmness of the twin orbs within it. The pair was so much bigger than my own. It rested in my palm, filling my clawed fingers.

I thought about Andrea cupping these oval stones that day in the barn, when they hung between the legs of her lover. The specialized, unique only to men, flesh I held in my hand had powered Joshua’s desire for her, had given him the strength of body and the sharpness of will to win her, and the physical prowess to please her with his body. Now, he didn’t have it; it was in my hand.

I thought about the time as boys when I had accidentally kicked my friend between his legs while we wrestled. I remember his pain as he cursed me for my clumsiness. I remember how he had clutched both his hands under his fallen body, cupping the prized orbs that he prized so much. They were between his legs, vulnerable but so precious and important—irreplaceable. He had cupped, comforted, and protected them then with his hand. Now, he didn’t have them; they were in my hand.

I looked up at Joshua then, the flesh still held gently in my palm. And I looked at my friend, tied, helpless, in shock, his face awash in male agony. I thought of the please he felt as he pumped his seed into Andrea. The same pleasure that was now building between my legs. I thought about how she had clutched to his male body, feeling his muscles and his power and he humped and struggled over her. Those muscles would be gone soon—wasted away into the muscles of a woman. I thought about his penis, so hard and hungry inside her pussy, stretching it and pleasing it. It would always be a small shriveled noodle now. It would always just stick out of his thick pubes, which would probably fall out over time. The sign of his male maturity—gone. I thought about the balls that had made him a man, now in my hand. As I looked at my gelded friend, He was such a man. The head of my own penis exploded in a spasm of pleasure. Joshua isn’t a man anymore. I felt sweat drip from my wrinkled and tight ball bag. I felt the sheen of sweat that was still on Joshua’s severed bag. I could see his crotch. Behind his noodle and under his thick bush of pubes, nothing hung. The muscles behind my own smaller tight sick spasmed as they shot my seed from deep inside me. Joshua’s baby-makers were in my hand, the balls that made him a man; they’re gone to him, he’s been gelded, Joshua is a eunuch, he doesn’t have any sex, he isn’t a man, god, his balls are in my HANDDDdd.

The sound of thump, thump, thump sound of my seed hitting the side of the stall echoed in the quiet barn, and I became aware that my straining breath could be heard. The pleasure of my orgasm had masked the sound to my ears, but what about Joshua’s? I looked at him as the waves of pleasure lessened, but he hadn’t moved. The shock of his emasculation must have made him as deaf to my noises as my pleasure had made me. I knew the doc would be there soon, to tend him and make sure the wound would heal correctly. Without a sound, I crawled from the stall and out into the evening air.

* * *

Joshua healed under the doc’s care. Although he didn’t return to the fields, they say he became a quiet and content house worker. I didn’t see him much, seeing as how we now worked in different areas, but I heard a lot of what happened to him. He was quite the subject of conversation around the manor, since he was the only gelded slave. The other guys called him “nutless wonder” and such things. During the first 6 months after his emasculation, things were really rough for him in terms of teasing. Then, three field hands that he had picked on during our early years at the manor cornered him behind the barn. They outraged him. I guess he got a taste of what Andrea felt that night in the barn. The other field hands laughed about the incident. They said things like: “He isn’t a guy anymore anyway. They just turned him into a girl.” But the estate owner was pretty made. He had the three whipped and declared that any others ho assaulted another slave in that manor would be gelded as well.

Andrea would have nothing else to do with Joshua of course. About nine months later, she delivered Joshua’s son. She named him Joseph. I even took her for a lover when she recovered. Having a child and having been the lover of a guy who was now gelded, she did not seem as attractive to the field hands anymore. So I had no trouble winning her. I even helped take care of little Joseph. But I soon tired of her. After a few months, I moved on to another slave girl—a brunette from the southern province.

On my 21st birthday, I was released from the manor and found a job in town. It didn’t take long for me to meet a girl—Sarah. We were married by the winter, and nine months later I had a son of my own. Around that time, Joshua found me. He had been released from the manor upon his 21st birthday (about 6 months later than mine.) He was very sad, with a fat belly and little muscle mass. He looked like an overweight woman. I kinda felt sorry for him. After all, we had been best friends. He just fucked the wrong girl. I took him in for a while and then helped him find his own place. Eunuchs are a very put-upon people in town, so knowing me really helped him out.

Joshua has been a great “uncle” to my son as well. I think that, in a way, he feels bad that he wasn’t allowed to be a father to his only son Joseph, who was born a slave to the manor. I don’t know what happened to the boy, but I’m sure he was teased for being fathered by a man who “couldn’t keep his balls.” And, of course, as a slave at the manor, young Joseph would have to put up with Leon, the man who de-maled his father. As much as Leon disliked Joshua, I’m sure he wouldn’t give Joseph a break. In fact, I’d say the chances of Joshua’s son keeping his own balls until the age of 19 are zero.

When my son was old enough to go to the baths (around 13), I would let Joshua come with us. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been allowed in the baths. We would throw javelins and run and swim. Joshua couldn’t keep up of course, but at least he got to wade in the pools. Once, on the way home from the baths, my son looked at me and said, “why does Uncle Joshua not have his two guys between his legs.” I put my hand on my son’s shoulder and said: “I’ll tell you when you’re older.” Perhaps, when he is 18 and a man himself, I will show my son the jar I have with his Uncle Joshua’s manhood pickled inside.